


a long con

by Helenish



Series: Here is a thing that isn't happening. [10]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, underage mumble mumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can I have the car this weekend?" Eames says, on Monday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a long con

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Wielki kant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091197) by [Donnie_Engelvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donnie_Engelvin/pseuds/Donnie_Engelvin)



"Can I have the car this weekend?" Eames says, on Monday. It’s raining, and Arthur’s driving him to school.

"What day?" Arthur says. He takes a sip of coffee from his travel mug, driving one-handed.

"Saturday, I guess," Eames says, watching the raindrops slide down the windshield.

"Sure, yeah," Arthur says. He starts to turn into the drop-off line, but Eames says,

"Never mind, I’ll just run for it." He reaches over the seat and grabs his bookbag.

"See you in a couple days, okay?" Arthur says. He’s working an out-of-town job until Thursday. "Call me if you need anything."

"Yeah," Eames says. "Good luck," and dodges out of the car into the rain.

*

"So," Eames says, tilting one shoulder against the wall of lockers and looking down at Bethany Walker. "Are you ever going to say hi to me?"

"What?" she says, barely slanting him a glance. "I don't even know you."

"Not yet," Eames says. She looks then; Eames looks back. Long shiny brown hair, neat little corduroy mini skirt, snug black sweater.

"Whatever," she says, unimpressed, pulling a tube of lip gloss out of her bag.

Eames laughs. "Okay, suit yourself," he says, and pushes himself off the locker. That’s good for Monday--he has until probably Wednesday, Thursday morning if he wants to get her for Saturday, plenty of time, but then he gets lucky and some asshole jostles into his shoulder, gets up in his face, and says, "Hey, fucktard, stop bothering her."

"Oh, you’re in charge of who she talks to?" Eames says, friendly, easy, but using one of Arthur's smiles, cool and sharp. The guy turns away, mumbling under his breath. Eames gives her a little shrug. She’s holding the lipgloss in her hand, open, looking up at him.

"That cherry?" Eames says, quiet.

"Yeah," she says.

"Thought so," he says, lets it sit for a second, not too long, and then says, "See you around."

"Wait, I don't even--what's your name?" she says.

*

Eames goes to Mal and Dom's for dinner most nights when Arthur is out of town. Arthur makes it clear that Eames is trusted to stay at home alone, but Mal always asks--"Better than one of those awful frozen dinners Arthur leaves you, don’t you think?" and Eames nearly always says yes. Mal and Dom talk a lot and their house is crammed with books and art and fancy knick-knacks and heavy antique furniture. Mal wears silk caftans and bare feet around the house, twists her hand in the front of Dom’s sweater when he gets home and frenches him right in front of Eames, cooks elaborate meals that use every pot in the kitchen, and tells Eames long and impossible-sounding stories about people he doesn’t know. Dom is quieter, but Eames likes how steady he is next to Mal, how he’ll put his hand on the small of her back when he passes by her and she’ll go still, her smile private, small.

"Want to get in some practice tonight?" Dom says, over dessert.

"I have homework," Eames says. Mal rolls her eyes. "Well, I do," he says.

"You're a bad influence," Dom says to her, and then, to Eames, "School's important, don't listen to her."

"Of course school is important," Mal agrees. "Your dedication is admirable. It's just that when Arthur brought you home with him he assured us you were a bad seed--"

"He didn't say that," Dom says, comfortingly.

"And a liar, a thief, and a hardened con artist," Mal says.

"Which is actually pretty effusive for Arthur," Dom says, gesturing with his spoon.

"So imagine my surprise," Mal says, "When I can't even tempt you into a little dreaming before you finish making a dumb chart about 11th century trade routes or whatever terribly edifying project they have you completing this week."

"Maybe I'm running a long con," Eames says. Mal laughs, and leans across the table to give him another scoop of apple crumble.

"In that case," she says, "allow me to give you a little piece of advice: Stop being so perfect, it makes people suspicious."

"I'm not perfect," Eames says. He practically flunked a Chemistry test last week and he didn't even read _The Great Gatsby_ and he spends most of the pocket money Arthur gives him on cigarettes even though every time Arthur catches him he tells him to quit and he goes to the Mall sometimes and lifts wallets just to keep in practice, just in case, and Arthur frowns over his grades in math and makes him explain how he got this answer or that answer, tells Eames he can't hope to make a career in dream work if he can't solve a simple algebraic equation and makes it clear that he thinks Eames just isn't trying hard enough.

Mal waves her hand. "Supposing you are in a dream," she says. Mal starts a lot of sentences this way. "You never want to give your subject any reason to look too hard in your direction. You must be convincing, but not flashy, never too perfect."

"But--they look if you’re all wrong, too," Eames says.

"That’s exactly right," Dom says, in full-on lecture mode now. If Eames asks one more question he’ll end up in the study watching Dom draw diagrams on a white board until midnight. "The best way to avoid detection is to show someone a muted version of something they already want to see, something appealing but not too neat--comfortable."

"But no fireworks," Mal says, resting her chin on her hand. "And even if it is something the subject dearly desires, you will find more success if you can discover a way to bring an element of truth into the deception as well, do you understand?”

*

Shit, Eames thinks, the next morning, when Bethany, pale yellow dress, long bare legs, nicest rack in school, gives him a big, blue-eyed, fuck-me smile as she passes him in the hallway and says, "hey, you."

Eames stares after her, the perfect sweep of her hair against her back, the way the dress swings and swirls around her hips as she moves. Fuck.

*

"Hi Lisa," Eames says, Wednesday, hanging back after the bell rings.

"Hi," she says, slowly. He hunches his shoulders a little.

"I sit in the back," he says, jerking one hands towards his desk. "I don't, um. say much."

"Okay," she says, gathering her stuff.

"Sorry," he says, "I know you have to get to track practice and--"

"What, are you stalking me?" she says, jerking up her head and Eames takes a step back, swallowing.

"No, I just--I asked about y--sorry," he says. "Sorry, I'm not very good at this. There weren't any girls at my old school."

"Really?" she says. Her grip on her books loosens a little.

"Yeah," he says. He shifts on his feet a little, gives her a shy, nervous smile, lets her get a look at him. He wore one of the oxford shirts Arthur bought him for work for this, but untucked, sleeves rolled up, spent some time at lunch in the bathroom crumpling the collar to get it right.

"What aren't you good at?" she says finally.

Lisa Perkins gets straight As, knows all the answers in Chemistry but doesn’t talk much, skins her too-pale blonde hair back from her face in a tight ponytail, has an angular, pretty face, wears jeans and beat-up sneakers and runs hurdles. Eames watched her for a while on Tuesday afternoon, watched the way she threw her body forward and up, not effortless, but determined. She’s fast; sometimes after she came over the last hurdle she kept on around the curve, her knees flying higher and higher. It was something to see; Eames stayed, leaning against the bleachers, out of sight, for longer than he needed to.

*

Arthur gets back in a little late on Thursday, but it works out because Lisa doesn’t get out of track practice until past four. They’re barely halfway through the problem set when Arthur comes in the door with his overnight bag. Lisa’s sitting cross-legged on the couch and Eames has pulled the ottoman up to the coffee table so he can write on it, but they both straighten when they see Arthur.

"Hello," Arthur says, blinking once. "Eames."

"This is Lisa," Eames says. Lisa unfolds herself a little, gives Arthur a polite little smile. "She’s helping me with my Chemistry homework."

"Sure, okay," Arthur says. "Nice to meet you," he says, to Lisa.

*

"Still need the car this weekend?" Arthur says, after dinner.

"Yeah," Eames says. Arthur smiles at him. It pops up a soft dimple in his cheek. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and an old-looking henley with a few buttons missing and his hair is still wet from the shower, falling forward into his face. Maybe he’s going over to Holly’s again tonight; maybe Eames will lie awake again, waiting and waiting for him to come home, knowing that Arthur’s rolling around in bed with her, kissing her, beautiful, gorgeous Holly, her legs wrapped around Arthur’s waist while he fucks her.

"That’s great," Arthur says. "It’s good you’re making friends."

"Yeah," Eames says. "I--homework," he mumbles, so he can go in his room and stop having to look at Arthur, the faint stubble on his jaw, the narrow sweep of his cheekbones, the stark, humiliating relief in his eyes that Eames won’t be bothering him with his stupid crush anymore.


End file.
